


to maintain the peace

by zynnser



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Fluff, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Smut, a smattering of angst because they're still figuring out how to be happy, pretense at hurt/comfort but really it's just Sylvain being emotionally supportive via sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zynnser/pseuds/zynnser
Summary: Felix and Ingrid return early from a diplomatic venture to Sreng, and Sylvain is by turns worried, delighted, and horny.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, implied Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 14
Kudos: 153





	to maintain the peace

**Author's Note:**

> When I finished Three Houses I immediately wanted to write a Felix/Ingrid/Sylvain OT3, so I did. Then I spent several months sitting on it while I tried to convince my non-FE friends to beta before I finally decided fuck it, it's good enough. And now here we are.
> 
> This is part of a verse I may or may not write more of set in a post-AM canon where Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain are together and do politics. The only mildly relevant development is that Felix and Ingrid got married for political reasons shortly after the war and they put precisely zero effort into hiding the fact that they're both in an equal and loving relationship with Sylvain.

Another paper flutters to the ground and Sylvain rubs his temples, doing his best to suppress an irritated sigh. He lets it out anyway as he hauls himself up to retrieve the paper and it floats away from him on a stray breeze from the open window; glad for the small mercy that no one else is here to judge him for his poor etiquette.

Instead of chasing the paper around the room - that way lies madness - Sylvain instead wanders over to the window and lets his gaze roam over the brightly colored leaves on the property outside. He takes in a deep breath of air and lets it out in a gust, savoring the crisp chill of autumn in his lungs. It’s perfect weather for Faerghus, making the paperwork littering the floor all the more trying for it.

Maybe he could justify taking his horse out for an afternoon ride to clear his head, or whatever it is nobles use as an excuse to get away from their desks these days.

A knock on the door interrupts his musings, and Sylvain turns from the window to see his steward standing in the doorway. The man raises an eyebrow at the mess on the floor but doesn’t comment. Although Sylvain is the Margrave now, Alban had been his father’s steward and he still feels like a child more often than not under that watchful eye, so he’s pathetically grateful for the reprieve.

The silence stretches and eventually Sylvain straightens up and clears his throat, awkward in a way he has rarely felt since the end of the war. “Yes?”

Alban bows at the waist and Sylvain swears he sees a the man’s lips twitch ever so slightly before he speaks. “My Lord, the Lady Fraldarius has arrived on her pegasus and is waiting for you in the armory.”

“Ingrid is back?” Sylvain perks up, not sure whether he should be delighted or worried. He decides to settle on the former, at least until he hears bad news. “They weren’t due back from Sreng for another two weeks.”

“As you say, My Lord” Alban agrees placidly. “I’m sure the Lady Fraldarius has news for you on matters from the border.”

“Of course,” Sylvain strides purposely toward the door, eager to see Ingrid after her absence for the last month. He pauses at the entryway, looking back on the mess behind him. “Err…”

“I’ll have have one of the pages put it back in order, My Lord.” Alban says as he crosses the room and closes the window. The papers stop flitting across the desk like they have a mind of their own, but the air also becomes unbearably stuffy. It’s far to reminiscent of the way the room felt during his father’s tenure as Margrave, and Sylvain can’t get away fast enough.

“Right. Thank you.” Sylvain slides out of the room before Alban can say anything else, getting the distinct impression that the older man is laughing at his antics. For the life of him he can’t figure out why; it’s not as though skipping out on calculating harvest taxes to see his lover is in any way responsible, and the man has never been amused by Sylvain’s amorous exploits in the past.

Maybe he’s mellowing out in his old age?

Dismissing the subject as wholly unimportant, Sylvain makes a beeline for the armory. He’s willing to bet Alban tried to detain Ingrid in the parlor with an bribe of tea, but if Ingrid’s fresh off the road she’s probably walked right past him. The image of Alban chasing her down the hall trying to insist on proper decorum makes him grin.

Sure enough when he arrives Ingrid is leaning over a pile of armor to unbuckle the last strap on her greaves.

“Ingrid!”

She startles at his voice and turns toward him, eyes widening as he bounds forward to scoop her up and twirl her in a hug.

“I missed you so much,” he says, pushing his face up into her chest and tightening his hold around her waist. “You’ve been gone forever.”

“Put me down, Sylvain,” she laughs, bracing her knees against his hips when he only lifts her higher. “I’ve been flying all day, I want my feet on the ground.”

Sylvain grumbles, but sets her down. “Spoilsport.” He keeps his hands on her shoulders as he takes in her appearance. Her riding cloak has green smudges around the edges like she’d used it as a blanket while lying on the ground, and dust from the road has settled into the seams of her tunic. But nothing looks torn or dented in a way that speaks of injury or attack, so Sylvain allows himself to remain cautiously optimistic about the reason for her early return.

She regards him in turn, raising a hand to rub her thumb over the crows feet he knows are starting to form at the edges of his eyes. “Look at you, starting to turn _distinguished_ on us,” she says, although it comes off as more reverent than teasing.

Sylvain smiles at the sincerity, but he’s never been one to pass up such a perfect opportunity to flirt. “Maybe if I spent all day flying with you I’d have flawless sun-kissed skin too.”

“ _Sylvain,”_ Ingrid groans and rolls her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s true, I swear,” he says, not bothering to suppress the laughter in his voice. He watches as amusement flickers in her eyes. Leaning forward, Sylvain presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and savor the closeness between them before he moves on to more serious matters.

She smells like pine and leather, windblown and light with the freedom of flying through the skies and for a second it feels as though his heart is soaring with her.

His heart lands and he opens his eyes. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but tell me; why are you back so early?” 

Ingrid’s shoulders drop under his hands, releasing tension as she sighs and pulls back out of their private, personal bubble to a respectably formal distance. “There was an attack.”

Sylvain freezes. Ah, there it is: the bad news.

“Before you freak out on me, it wasn’t an attack on _us_ and everyone is fine. There was a domestic dispute about hunting rights and a neighboring tribe led a raid as retribution.”

“But you’re all okay?” The words are out before Sylvain processes that Ingrid has already answered his question, a reflexive response to the knowledge that _his people_ were in danger on what was supposed to be a peaceful diplomatic venture.

“Yes, Sylvain, we’re all okay. I’m fine. Felix is fine. The diplomats are fine. No harm was done to our mission.” Ingrid’s tone indicates this is a well worn speech, and Sylvain briefly wonders how many times she repeated those exact phrases to Felix before he believed her. Assuming he did; Felix worries.

He frowns, concerns about her early appearance replaced with concerns about her early appearance _alone_. “Felix?” he asks, letting the name encompass all the questions he doesn’t want to put into words.

Ingrid shakes her head. “Physically he’s fine. You know he’s getting better with not bottling things up, but this is the first time we’d been in a skirmish together since the war ended.”

Sylvain winces. Yeah, he remembers the way Felix would alternately cling to them and push them away during the war, trying to come to terms with openly loving someone he could lose for the first time since Glenn. Progress has been faster since the end of the war, now that their mortality isn’t constantly being shoved in Felix’s face, but Felix still gets wound up about their safety often enough to feel stifling. 

Ingrid must have caught the look on his face, because she sighs and takes his hands, thumbs rubbing gently across his knuckles. “You are a Margrave bordering the only unallied territory left in Fódlan and I am a knight in the service of His Majesty. We are never going to be entirely safe, and he can’t cloister us away just because our jobs have risks.”

Her logic is as sound as ever, but Sylvain has a lot of experience with how little logic matters when emotions come into play. “He’ll be okay though,” Sylvain says tentatively, and he’s not sure whether it’s a statement or a question.

“He will be,” Ingrid affirms, her tone blessedly sure. “But he’s been prowling the edges of camp since the raid and I needed a break.”

Sylvain nods, trusting Ingrid’s judgement. He’s familiar with the way Felix becomes hypervigilant rather than admit he’s upset; during the war he had spent a lot of time staking out the infirmary when Sylvain or Ingrid had been wounded in battle, as if the extra diligence after the fact could make up for his own perceived weakness that had allowed one of them to be injured in the first place. It wasn’t ideal, but it was still a lot better than the way he kept them at arms length during their time at the academy.

Even so, being the sole focus of Felix’s protective drive can be exhausting, and Ingrid has never dealt with it as well as Sylvain. Any attention is good attention as far as Sylvain is concerned, so he usually lets himself revel in being the focus of Felix’s world until Felix gets fed up with him and they return to normal. The watchfulness grates on Ingrid more because it reminds her of what her father hoped she would be; dutiful, obedient, _contained_.

A caged bird.

Ingrid usually only puts up with Felix’s paranoia long enough to ensure that he isn’t going to go on a rampage if she’s not within sight before she leaves to get some space. Given that the Sreng village negotiations had been held at was a week’s march away, Ingrid is likely at her limit of how much hovering she can take.

Luckily, Sylvain knows exactly how to help.

“I can think of a thing or two that might help you relax,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at her. It’s a testament to how exhausted she must be that Ingrid doesn’t even swat him on the shoulder for the blatant innuendo, just raises a judgemental eyebrow instead.

“Does this thing involve a bed?” she asks.

“It might,” Sylvain allows. “If you want it to.”

She hums thoughtfully, reaching for the ties at the throat of her tunic and loosening them enough that Sylvain can see her collarbones peeking out from beneath the fabric.

“Lead the way, Lord Gautier.”

It takes a moment for Sylvain to tear his eyes away from the newly exposed skin to recognize that she is addressing him, and that that is _his_ title now. “Right,” he says, straightening up and meeting her amused gaze. “Yeah, I’ll just… this way.”

He takes her hand and tugs her along behind him as if she doesn’t know the way as well as he does. His rooms - their rooms - are only a few doors down from the armory and, by extension, the training grounds. It was a concession Sylvain made after the fourth time one of the staff had walked in on him and Felix rutting by the pitch. The space is much smaller than the master suite intended for the lord of the house, but the location suits the three of them much better.

Sylvain leads her straight to the side of the bed before turning around and stepping into her space, cupping her face and leaving butterfly kisses across her cheeks.

“And how might I serve my lady today?” he asks, directing her to sit on the bed and kneeling before her. He carefully unlaces her boots and slides them off, hands massaging the stiffness out of her calves as he does.

“Hmmm,” Ingrid sighs, pushing into his touch. “This is a good start. Keep going.”

Sylvain smiles and nuzzles into the fabric around her knee, pulling at it lightly with his teeth. Ingrid is still wearing her warm underlayers for flying, and he _really_ wants to start getting them off of her. He noses his way up her thigh, pulling back to stand up when he reaches the edge of her skirt.

He unlaces his own shirt, yanking it off and dropping it in a heap on the floor. Leaning forward, he wraps an arm around Ingrid’s shoulders and lets himself fall onto the bed, twisting and pulling her with him so they end up lying nose to nose with her weight across his chest. Feeling her body against him is a comforting reassurance, reminding him that she’s here at home in their bed. Right where she belongs.

“So gorgeous,” Sylvain says, leaning up to press a quick kiss to the side of her lips. It earns him an amused huff as Ingrid rolls fully on top of him and chases him back down. Sylvain smiles into the kiss, fingers stroking mindless circles into Ingrid’s hips as he lets her devour him. 

“I thought you wanted me to keep going,” he teases when they break apart, loosening Ingrid’s tunic enough to push it up over her chest. “Or did you just want me to pull down the covers and tuck you in for a nap?”

“I’m fully capable of falling asleep without you watching me like a lovelorn idiot,” Ingrid says, dropping any flirty pretense in favor of yanking her tunic the rest of the way off and tossing it on the floor.

Laughing, Sylvain undoes the fastening to her breeches and hooks his thumbs over the waistband, catching her smallclothes and slowly sliding them down her ass. “You’re fully capable of getting yourself undressed on your own too,” he teases, leaning up to steal another quick kiss. “So why ask me for help? Is it my stunning good looks? My irresistible charm? My unparalleled skill in the bedroom? Tell me, I’m dying to know.”

“Maybe I just missed you,” Ingrid concedes, and Sylvain’s heart clenches with fondness. She leans forward seeking a kiss, and Sylvain meets her in the middle, tongue dancing with hers in a way he has gone far too long without.

The touch is intoxicating, and Sylvian needs more. Tilting his body up, Sylvain presses them fully against each other, reveling in the warmth of skin to skin contact.

“Goddess, I missed you too,” Sylvain says softly, overwhelmed at the feeling of finally having her here with him again. “Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. Taking on the Margrave title, staying on Gautier lands; because I don’t get to see you as often as I-”

Ingrid cuts him off with another kiss, squirming in a way that makes her breasts rub tantalizingly against his chest. His breath catches on a moan and his words turn into garbled praise, his hands squeezing her ass and pulling her in tighter against him.

“You wouldn’t be happy if you weren’t doing right by your people,” Ingrid says, breaking the kiss to breathe heavily against Sylvain’s lips. “And Felix and I wouldn’t be happy without our positions in Fhirdiad. It works for us. And it would work better if you’d give me the reunion sex I know you’ve been thinking about since you heard I was home.”

Sylvain feels a smile creep over his face at her blunt assessment of his situation and tries to stifle a laugh, then gives up and just lets it out. His hands wrap around Ingrid’s waist as he buries his face in her neck, his whole body shaking with amusement and relief and love as he plants little kisses against her throat.

“What would I do without you,” he says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice.

“Probably fall to pieces and make your steward do all the actual work of governing,” Ingrid informs him, claiming his lips and pulling him into a sitting position. She slides off of him, standing just long enough to shove her breeches all the way down and step out of them before splaying herself out on the bed next to him and arching an eyebrow in challenge.

It’s a clear invitation and Sylvain doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes just long enough to hastily remove his own pants and underclothes before joining her, claiming her lips in a kiss as he rolls them to the center of the bed.

Hands tangle in his hair, and Sylvain lets Ingrid take control. Her mouth is sharp and hungry against his, and Sylvain can’t help but rise to meet her with equal desire. It’s been far too long since he’s seen her or Felix, in his opinion, and he is going to enjoy whatever Ingrid decides she wants.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid whines, breaking the kiss and pushing him downward in a clear request. “Sylvain, _ah!_ Please?”

“As my lady commands,” Sylvain murmurs into her collarbone, pulling the skin between his teeth and worrying it until color blooms in a blatant claim. Her breath hitches and she pushes at him a little more insistently.

He goes, but at his own pace. Ingrid is a sight to behold even when he gets to see her every day, and it’s been over a month since they were last together; he wants to savor this.

Trailing his hands along her sides Sylvain slowly makes his way downward, stopping every so often to let out appreciative moans and whisper soft words of praise. He spends some extra time lavishing attention on the delicate skin around her breasts. They’re soft and lovely and fit perfectly in his hands, and the way she gasps and arches into his touch when he mouths at them is lovely too.

He continues on his way down, kissing down her sternum to the thin layer of fat protecting her iron core. The area along the edge of her obliques has always been particularly sensitive, and Sylvain makes sure to tease his lips against it. Ingrid’s hands tighten in his hair like she can’t decide whether or not she’s feeling ticklish or turned on, but don’t urge him to go faster or move away, so he takes the opportunity to spend a few more moments appreciating the unyielding strength he can feel coiled inside her.

Smiling as he gives one last kiss to her stomach, Sylvain moves down over her hips. He nuzzles into the crease of her thigh where her scent has been concentrated after a day spent in the saddle, heady and musky in a way that sends tingles down Sylvain’s spine. This time when he lips at the skin, she lets out the startled yelp and yanks his head away. 

“Sylvain! You know I’m tic- ugh.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says unapologetically, pressing placating kisses into her hip to cover up his laughter. “I won’t do it again. Promise.”

“Bastard,” Ingrid mumbles, tugging at his hair affectionately.

“Your bastard,” he agrees, a swell of fondness rising in his chest. 

Sylvain goes back to work, kissing and nipping gently as he makes his way down. Ingrid sucks in a breath as he reaches the thatch of hair between her legs, and then swears at him when he moves on to her thighs instead. They’re absolutely wonderful, smooth silk covering solid steel, and Sylvain moans softly in appreciation. He is absolutely sure she could crush him where he lies and he would die happy.

“I can feel you smiling, you know,” she says, pulling at his hair just hard enough to let him know exactly how displeased she is with him avoiding the main show. “And as much as I am enjoying your attention, I am tired and horny and would like to have an orgasm sometime _before_ I fall asleep.”

“So just because you spent all your energy riding in early means that I have to limit my adoration of your beauty?” Sylvain teases.

“What happened to _as my lady commands_ , huh?”

Sylvain lets himself be guided where she wants him with good humor. “I guess I did say that, huh?” he says, letting the warm air from his words gust over her sensitive skin in a final tease. Ingrid makes a noise halfway between frustration and relief, and Sylvain stretches forward to press his lips against her, tongue moving to slip between her folds.

Ingrid lets out a sharp breath at the touch, her thighs relaxing around Sylvain as he begins to eat her out in earnest. The tension returns slowly as he builds up a rhythm, long sweeping strokes punctuated by short sucking kisses that never failed to make her tremble against him.

Sylvain relishes the experience. Slick leaks out from Ingrid’s opening, and he lets it trickle down over his face, enjoying the way the small sounds Ingrid makes get less and less controlled as he gets messier. It’s inelegant and undignified and just so unlike Ingrid that Sylvain can’t help the elated pride that courses through him at the knowledge that Ingrid lets him see her like this. That she _wants_ him to see her like this.

Ingrid has never been one to draw out her pleasure when tired, so it reaches a natural peak fairly quickly. The hand in Sylvain’s hair and the thighs around his ears clench tight, and Ingrid comes with a gasp, riding out the aftershocks on his tongue.

Once her breathing settles into a normal pattern, Sylain scoots up the bed and draws her into a kiss. She makes a noise at her taste on his lips, but lets him deepen the kiss anyway. It’s slow and lazy. Maybe a bit too slow, but that’s fine. It’s still perfect, and Sylvain vocalizes his appreciation with a soft moan.

Shifting closer to Ingrid, Sylvain grinds up against her thigh, whispering needy promises against her lips. Ingrid gives him another kiss, this one more heated, before drawing back and gracing him with a genuine smile.

“I think your lady would like a nap,” she says, and Sylvain lets out a whine of disbelief. “Felix should be in the training grounds though, so he can take care of this for you.”

“Felix?” Disbelief colors Sylvain’s voice as he watches Ingrid burrow her way into the bedsheets. He’s not sure if it’s more because Ingrid is telling him Felix is _here_ or if it’s because she’s kicking him out for her beauty sleep. “I thought you flew ahead.”

Ingrid scrunches her nose at him. “I did, but he had _that_ look on his face when I left.”

Oh, Sylvain thinks. _That_ look. The one that means they might be riding and Felix might be on foot, but he is damn well going to keep pace with them even if it kills him. It happened frequently enough during the war, usually after either Sylvain or Ingrid had done something Felix deemed _stupid_ or _reckless_ or _going to get yourself killed, you moron,_ and it always left Felix in a foul mood.

“You could at least let me have an orgasm before I have to go talk him down from destroying all the training dummies,” he says with a grimace, hauling himself off the bed and grabbing the first piece of clothing he comes across. It turns out to be Ingrid’s riding breeches, which is not helpful. Tossing them toward the corner of the room, he reaches out for a more appropriately pants-shaped lump of cloth.

A snort comes from the bed, where Ingrid has now completely ensconced herself in the linens. “You know he’s going to jump you the second he sees you, the way he always does when he gets overwhelmed. If you think you can get it up again during the walk between here and the training grounds, then by all means come back over here and I’ll get you off.”

Sylvain pouts in the general direction where he last saw Ingrid’s head. “If you’d asked me a few years ago I probably could have.”

“I was there for your teenage years, Sylvain; your short refractory period was not a highlight when you were using it to see how many beds you could crawl into in one night. Besides, Felix needs to see you; he’ll just get more worked up if he doesn’t and I’ve already had to deal with him like that for two weeks. Go fix it.”

She’s right, of course, even if she’s being mean about it. “Why do you always have to make so much sense,” Sylvain complains, leaning over the lump on the bed and kissing what he thinks is her shoulder. “Fine, I’ll make myself decent and let him work out his unresolved emotional tension on me.”

“Good,” Ingrid’s voice stretches around a yawn. “Come and get me when you’re done. I need a bath before dinner and I don’t want to miss the first real Fódlan meal I’ve had in a month because I’m not presentable.”

Sylvain chuckles lightly, nudging her as he sits on the bed to put on his boots. “I’m pretty sure my staff is used to seeing us in pretty much every state of undress.”

“Just because you enjoy flaunting our relationship every time you get the chance doesn’t mean I want to show up at dinner with dirt on my clothes and slick on my thighs.”

Sylvain politely does not point out that she has definitely eaten dinner with them in exactly that state more than once, instead pulling his shirt over his head and standing. He considers finding a jacket, but decides against it. Felix might get a little rough if he’s been upset, but even so Sylvain is probably just going to lose his clothing in a few minutes anyway; no need to put on more than the bare minimum.

He grabs a vial of oil from the vanity on his way to the door, pausing for a moment to smile softly at the figure lying in the bed before ducking out and heading to the training grounds.

The repeated thumping of metal on straw covered wood is loud enough to be heard from the hallway and alerts him to the fact that Felix is likely in an even worse mood than he anticipated. Sure enough, when he steps out onto the packed earth that makes up the floor he sees Felix hacking away at one of the dummies. His typical refined style is gone in favor of violent swings designed to mete out as much punishment as possible with no consideration for anything else.

Sylvain winces as a he hears the cross post crack under a particularly violent blow. The last time Felix had been this out of sorts with his training was during the war. Ingrid’s pegasus had taken an arrow to the wing during battle and she’d fallen from near the top of the castle parapets while they watched, too far away to get to her or do anything to cushion her fall. She’d been lucky to land on a patch of greenery soft enough not to kill her outright, but they’d still had to sit shifts with her in the infirmary for two weeks before Manuela let them take her back to the dormitory.

Sylvain spares a moment to mourn his poor neglected erection, then grabs a training lance from the wall. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.

“Hey, Felix!” Sylvain calls, raising his voice to be heard above the steady _thwack thwack thwack_ of the training sword against the now sagging dummy. He approaches cautiously, not wanting Felix to startle and attack him on instinct. On a good day Felix’s strikes are strong even when deflected properly, but when he’s like this they’re downright brutal.

“What,” Felix snaps, pivoting to face Sylvain. His expression is paradoxically calm compared to the tension running through every line in his body, and Sylvain is really not looking forward to this. Friendly spars are a perfectly acceptable form of foreplay as far as he’s concerned, but Felix doesn’t look remotely capable of _friendly_ right now.

“She’s with you?” Felix flinches at the sound of his own words so he probably means it to be a statement, but the way his voice trails up at the end makes it into a question.

A vulnerability.

“Taking a nap in bed,” Sylvain confirms, making sure to catch Felix’s eyes so he can see the truth in the words. “Ingrid’s fine.”

Felix nods, posture regaining its earlier aggression as if he hadn’t been worried at all.

“Spar with me.”

Instead of answering Sylvain lunges with his lance, knowing that if he lets Felix take the offensive he’ll never get it back.

Felix sidesteps him and the fight begins. Sylvain’s world becomes a whirl of dodges, strikes, and parries that rattle his bones. Bruises form from swings that almost land, and Sylvain wishes he’d put on his jacket or at least something with a little more padding than a glorified undershirt.

Even so Felix is exhausted from his travels and his workout, and Sylvain eventually manages to slip through his guard and disarm him. But instead of conceding like a normal person or even taking a moment to retrieve his weapon, Felix gets back into a ready stance and comes at Sylvain with just his fists. The single minded focus in Felix’s movements catches Sylvain off guard, and Felix gets a hand on his wrist. One sharp twist and Sylvain’s lance follows Felix’s sword to the edge of the grounds, and now they’re both unarmed.

It ends quickly after that; Felix is trained in grappling and he doesn’t give Sylvain time to go for his weapon.

Sylvain yelps as Felix sweeps his feet out from under him, letting out a piteous groan as he lands flat on his back. Felix follows him to the ground, his hands pinning Sylvain’s wrists and his bodyweight holding him down. Twisting and trying to get free proves useless, as Felix just moves with him and keeps him down. Also not helping is Sylvain’s erection, making a noticeable reappearance now that Felix is pressed up against him.

“Yield,” Sylvain says, collapsing back against the ground in surrender. “I yield.”

Felix lets out a little _hmph_ and does not release him, instead leaning forward to press his lips over Sylvain’s pulse. Tipping his head back to give Felix better access, Sylvain waits him out, familiar with the action. It’s been a while, but during the war Felix confessed that being able to all but taste their heartbeats under his lips helped remind him that they were all alive.

“She went to help them,” Felix says at length, pressing his words into Sylvain’s throat like an offering he needs to make but isn’t sure will be welcome. “We were _safe_ and just jumped into the fray with no warning.”

Sylvain doesn’t reply, but frees a hand to thread his fingers through Felix’s hair. He cradles Felix’s head and pulls him closer, stifling his own words and instead offering reassurance through touch. Keeping his face hidden helps Felix talk, and there are a lot of feelings trying to push themselves out through Felix’s words.

“What if I hadn’t been there,” Felix continues. “If she needed backup and I hadn’t been there… I…”

Silence settles between them, but the minute shaking of Felix’s breath against his skin tells Sylvain that they’re not quite done yet. So he waits.

“And you.” The silence breaks and Felix lets out a rush of air with the words. “You weren’t there and all I could think about was what if something had happened to _you_ and _I wasn’t there_.”

Ah, Sylvain thinks. So that’s it.

From Ingrid’s casual dismissal of the threat from the attack and the way Felix hasn’t focused on the details, he can guess at the real problem and why its been festering for two weeks. Like most things, Sylvain is pretty sure the blame for this points straight back to Glenn. Being part of King Lambert’s honor guard was supposed to be a prestigious and relatively safe job, so it was all the more shocking when one day he was just _gone_ without even a body to mourn.

Being Margrave is supposed to be a relatively safe job too.

But Sylvain isn’t ten anymore and he refuses to make promises he can’t keep; life is unpredictable and as Ingrid pointed out, Felix can’t hide them away from the world on the justification of possibilities. Still, there is something he can offer.

“I’ve got people waiting for me,” Sylvain says, pressing a kiss to the crown of Felix’s head. “You and Ingrid are my priority, over everything. Duty be damned.”

Felix stays quiet, but the way he trembles against Sylvain’s betrays the depth of his emotion. He shakes his head slowly, lips grazing back and forth over Sylvain’s pulse point, never pulling away far enough to lose contact.

One hand still caught in Felix’s hair, the other running up and down the length of his spine, Sylvain waits. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Felix lets out a wet breath that’s just shy of a sob and sits up. His face is a bit blotchy, but the tension from earlier has drained away.

Sylvain finds himself smiling. “You look beautiful.”

“You and your flattery,” Felix says derisively, looking away to try to compose himself. It’s too late though, Sylvain has already seen the blush taking over his features and besides, and it’s not as if Felix could ever look _bad_.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Sylvain protests cheerfully. Felix glares intently at a patch of dirt a few feet away, and Sylvain takes the opportunity to shift around so that his still half hard erection presses up against Felix’s thigh.

“Really?” Felix huffs, although he sounds more fond than anything else. “All that and you’re just ready to go?”

“Well,” Sylvain drawls, more than ready for some lighthearted banter and maybe something else too, “I do have a gorgeous man sitting in my lap. Going to help me out here, handsome?”

“Not if you insist on calling me that,” Felix says, words belied by the way he moves so that Sylvain can feel an answering hardness pressing up against his hip. Sylvain gives him a knowing grin, suppressing his laughter when Felix’s blush deepens. “Shut up.”

Sylvain grinds up against him, relishing the way Felix sways a little at the contact. Seizing the opportunity, Sylvain uses the one and only move he remembers from hand to hand practice to flip them, unsettling Felix’s center of gravity and rolling them until he is kneeling between Felix’s splayed legs.

Grunting, Felix gives him a disgusted look. “I can’t believe you made the professor teach you grappling just so you could use it in bed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sylvain says with a look of perfect innocence. “I only ever use that move on the training grounds.”

Felix doesn’t deign to respond, just letting out a little huff that’s part amusement and part annoyance and Sylvain can’t help the smile that breaks out because that is such a typical Felix response.

“I assume you had something in mind then?” Felix prompts, clearly not enjoying the moment the way Sylvain is. “Well?”

  
Reaching into his pocket, Sylvain pulls out the vial of oil he’d grabbed before leaving their room. “I thought we might want to use this.”

“That’s not my honing oil, is it?” is the first thing Felix says. Which, rude. It’s not Sylvain’s fault that half the oils in the armory and training grounds aren’t multifunctional. He stocks them with the highest quality plant based oils; it’s _Felix_ who claims those don’t get the proper edge on his blades and insists on leaving bottles of his favorite mineral oils lying around everywhere.

It can get confusing, okay? It was one time, and Sylvain learned his lesson.

“Not unless you’ve been doing weapons maintenance in the bedroom without telling me,” Sylvain replies, holding out the vial so Felix can verify for himself. “So, you or me?”

Felix considers for a moment, then swipes the vial from Sylvain. “You won’t do it right,” he says, shoving Sylvain back a bit. “Give me some room.”

Interpreting that to mean Felix wants it rough and thinks Sylvain will be too gentle, Sylvain settles back to watch. Normally he’d snatch the vial right back and insist on preparing Felix properly; rough sex is one thing but outright pain is another entirely. But Felix knows his own limits and he clearly needs the reassurance that comes from that feeling of just a little too much. And Sylvain would much rather see him get there from a round of enthusiastic sex than from overworking himself and collapsing on the training grounds.

That said, watching Felix shimmy out of his pants and shudder as he pushes two fingers into himself is incredibly hot, so maybe Sylvain has another motive too.

“You’re amazing,” Sylvain says. “You look so good opening yourself up for me like this.” It’s true and has the bonus of making Felix’s blush return, which only adds to the delicious scene playing out in front of him. A shy Felix is an adorable Felix, especially when he has no reason to be self conscious. Sylvain has seen him in just about every situation imaginable by this point in their lives, and he has yet to find one that doesn’t drive home the point of how much he loves this ridiculous man.

Fingertips rubbing mindless circles into Felix’s thighs, Sylvain can’t help but stare as Felix roughly thrusts his fingers in and out in a pantomime of the way he wants Sylvain to fuck him. “Goddess that’s hot,” Sylvain mumbles under his breath, cock straining against his pants as he imagines it sinking into that tight heat instead of Felix’s fingers.

“Well?” Felix asks at last, pulling his fingers out and climbing into Sylvain’s lap. His hands brace against Sylvain’s chest and he pushes, guiding them so that Sylvain is lying on his back against the dirt and Felix is fully seated against him. “Are you going to get your dick out or do I have to do everything myself?”

Right. Sylvain has been so caught up in watching Felix that he’s all but forgotten that he’s an active participant in this. He fumbles with his laces, earning him a snort of derision from Felix as he yanks them open just enough to pull himself out.

“You’re distracting,” Sylvain says, which is less of a complaint and more of a compliment, although from the look on Felix’s face he doesn’t take it that way. “Slick me up?”

Felix doesn’t say anything, but gives Sylvain a few cursory pumps with his oiled hand before holding him in position and slowly sinking down onto him. It’s not a smooth slide, but Felix doesn’t stop until they’re flush against each other, panting slightly as his muscles flutter and clench almost painfully around Sylvain.

“Goddess,” Sylvain whines, hands coming up to grip Felix’s hips to stop him from trying anything crazy like _moving_ before they have time to adjust. “Felix, fuck.”

“That’s the idea,” Felix says. His voice is steady but the slightly wild look in his eyes tells Sylvain he’s not nearly as unaffected as he’s pretending to be.

“The idea is _not_ to make my dick explode before we even get started,” Sylvain says, earning him a raised eyebrow from Felix. “What? You’re incredibly attractive and you feel amazing and Ingrid already got me worked up with no payoff before I came over here.”

Felix’s lips pull up slightly at the sides in what is definitely a suppressed laugh, and Sylvain feels him slowly relaxing as the manic tension of before gives way to exasperated humor at Sylvain’s expense. He waits, smoothing his fingers back and forth across Felix’s hips as he catalogues the minute changes in Felix’s expression as he allows Sylvain to coax him out of his mood.

“Fine,” he says, muscles clamping down around Sylvain in a way that is _clearly_ intentional. His smug expression at Sylvain’s startled yelp and half aborted thrust is more than worth the moment of indignity though; not that Sylvain has any illusions about having any dignity around his lovers to begin with. “I’d let you set the pace but then I’d get bored. Try to keep up. Unlike you I expect payoff.”

Sylvain wants to laugh but it turns into a strangled groan as Felix shifts and starts moving, setting a moderate pace that invites Sylvain to meet him in the middle. He obliges, hips coming up off the ground to meet Felix as he slides down. It feels good, tight and warm and just enough drag to be stimulating without being painful. Felix must think so too because his mouth is hanging open in the unselfconscious way it only ever does when he’s too lost in sensation to remember to control his expression.

The pace slowly increases and Sylvain lets his hands wander as he feels tension starting to build in the pit of his stomach. He slides a hand under Felix’s shirt, tugging at his nipples to hear the sharp gasp that Felix never quite manages to stifle when he does that.

“Bast- ah! Bastard,” Felix spits out, no heat behind the words.

Sylvain grins at him, unrepentant. “You’re perfect like this,” he says, voice low and raspy with arousal. His eyes rake over Felix’s body, taking in his flushed skin and labored breathing as he works himself over on Sylvain’s dick. “Taking my cock like you were make for it, a gift from the goddess just for me, so amazing, fuck, _Felix.”_

Felix’s muscles clench in a way that means he’s close, and Sylvain reaches for Felix’s cock, trying to find a rhythm as the thrusting of their hips becomes more erratic. It doesn’t work perfectly but it works well enough, because it’s only a few moments later that Felix tilts forward, hands bracing on Sylvain’s shoulders as he rides out his orgasm.

Sylvain lets go of his control, thrusting up wildly into Felix and letting the satisfaction and elation from finally having Felix and Ingrid at home again wash over him as he follows after. They collapse together onto the dirt, Sylvain’s hands automatically coming up to trace senseless patterns along Felix’s spine as he glories in the afterglow.

“Ugh,” Felix says, recovering from the post-coital bliss much faster than Sylvain thinks is really necessary. “I feel disgusting.”

Sylvain sighs and pulls himself up, resigned to filling his cuddle quota in the baths. “Ingrid wants a bath too, let’s go get her and head over.”

“How about I go make sure the water is ready and you bring Ingrid,” Felix counters, turning away to reach for his pants.

“First I have to protect the training dummies from imminent destruction and now you’re sending me to wake up the dragon?” Sylvain complains, making sure to keep his tone light so that Felix doesn’t take offense. “I do all the hard work around here.”

Felix’s snort sound suspiciously like a laugh, so Sylvain counts it as a win. “You’d hardly work at all if it were up to you. Go get Ingrid. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sylvain agrees, reaching out a hand to catch Felix’s arm before he can make his exit. “She’s just been worried about you. You know that.”

“I know,” Felix says, his eyes flicking up to meet Sylvain’s for a brief moment before he pulls away. Sylvain lets him go, shamelessly pleased as Felix walks a bit more gingerly than normal on his way out the door.

Once Felix is gone Sylvain puts away their practice weapons and sets himself to rights before returning to their bedroom. He goes to the closet first, picking out one of Ingrid’s fluffiest dressing robes as a peace offering for waking her up. Armed and ready, he turns to the bed.

The formless lump is exactly where he left it.

“Ingrid,” he says, leaning gingerly over the bed to shake her. “Ingrid, we’re going to the baths.”

The lump groans theatrically and rolls away from Sylvain. Layers of bedding peel off to reveal a very disheveled Ingrid, and Sylvain can’t help the small surge of pride at knowing he helped put her in such a state of languid disarray.

“Bath?” he reiterates, holding out the robe.

A yawn. She blinks, staring at him and the offered robe in a daze before visibly shaking herself into wakefulness. “Right, yes. Bath.” Ingrid reaches out and takes the robe from him, slipping her arms into it and tying it shut as she stands.

“Ready?” she asks, ignoring the clothes still scattered across the floor as she marches to the door.

“Of course.”

When they get to the baths Felix has laid out three sets of towels, his clothes folded neatly by the leftmost pile. Felix himself is occupied rearranging the soaps and oils on the shelf into his preferred configuration, but turns to them as they walk in.

“Everything ready?” Sylvain asks, reaching for the laces on his pants.

Felix hums an affirmative and wanders across the room to Ingrid, hands clutching at her hips as he buries his face in her neck. He can’t see from this angle, but Sylvain knows Felix is tasting her pulse, just like he did earlier on the training grounds. Ingrid lets him, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair.

He pulls back on his own, faster than he did with Sylvain, looking slightly sheepish. Silently, he unties her dressing gown and slides it off her shoulders, tossing it to Sylvain before pulling Ingrid toward the steaming water.

Sylvain huffs in mock annoyance at being expected to put away their clothes, but hangs the dressing gown on the rack behind the towels anyway. No point in leaving perfectly clean clothing on the bathroom floor after all. He hears a slight splash from bodies entering the water and Ingrid sighing, and hurries to strip himself out of his remaining clothes, eager to join them.

The temperature is perfect, and Sylvain slides gratefully into the water. Across from him Ingrid is leaning back against Felix, his hands gently massaging suds into her hair. Judging by the way Ingrid’s eyes are closed and how she’s relaxed against him, Felix is offering his version of an apology rather than actually trying to wash her hair.

Ingrid appreciates it though, if the soft moan she lets out when Felix’s thumbs disappear behind the base of her skull is any indication. He smiles and stretches his legs out, brushing up against Felix and Ingrid as he does. Ingrid pushes lightly into the touch, and Felix’s gaze flicks out from where he’s focused on Ingrid to glance up at Sylvain. His eyes soften and the tension in his shoulders fades away, and Sylvain watches his lips pull up in a small private smile before returning his attention to Ingrid and the task at hand.

Sinking a little lower into the tub, Sylvain basks in the moment; the warmth of the water, the languid feeling in his limbs, his lovers here with each other and him.

They have too much to do to laze around in the bath until it’s time for dinner and bed. Sylvain still has unfinished paperwork on his desk and he needs to hear how the negotiations went with Sreng, but it can wait. For now this is enough, and Sylvain wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. 


End file.
